Beauty With You
by tectrices
Summary: For the LJ comm deancastiel's third Secret Angels exchange  Prompt: On the last night before the battle between heaven, hell and earth Castiel takes Dean to the most beautiful place he has found on Earth. D/C.


Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over "This Is Just To Say" or the show Supernatural. This is a fan-made venture and I am making no profit, other than kind reviews of my words.

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This Is Just To Say  
_I have eaten  
the plums  
that were  
in the icebox_

and which  
you were probably  
saving  
for breakfast.

Forgive me  
they were delicious  
so sweet  
and so cold  
-William Carlos Williams

**-**

**I.**

"That," Castiel says, looking down at the chipped plate in front of him, "is not very like heaven."

Sam laughs on a quick exhale, a chuckle in a light breath. Dean rolls his eyes and shovels in another bite. He speaks around the crust and soft, cinnamon filling. "You don't know what you're talking about. This is amazing. This is _beautiful_."

"It's just hyperbole," Sam explains, in lieu of a better explanation from his brother. "They advertise the pie as heavenly to attract customers, but nobody actually expects to… to really taste like heaven."

"Bull," Dean says, surreptitiously scraping up a bit of filling off his plate and licking it quickly off the tip of his finger. "This shit is heavenly – pie is a beautiful, beautiful thing."

It is Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "You know, no offense, Dean, but I think maybe Castiel would have a better idea of heaven – of _beauty_ - than you would."

The elder Winchester snorts derisively and the angel blinks at him, eyes like hazy sapphires focused somewhere on his face. "I do understand beauty," he says. "Even a human concept of beauty." The words are tentative on his tongue, as though he were just trying them out for the first time.

Dean chuckles and Sam's eyes narrow. "Beauty," Dean says, with the air of a seasoned connoisseur, "is a pair of double Ds and a g-string."

Sam is somewhere between amused and disgusted and Castiel's brows furrow. "I think your scope is too limited. There is beauty in the physical, but there's beauty elsewhere, too." He pauses and there is the twang of hesitation in his voice as slowly he expels his next words. "I have been reading a book of poetry. Perhaps you would enjoy it, also."

Dean only takes Castiel's plate and begins decimating the large chunk of pie left there as Sam laughs, full-throated and hearty. "Dean? _Poetry_? Sorry, that's just…"

"Bitch," Dean mutters to the table, sounding only a touch surly.

Sam's laughter lingers in the grin on his face as he responds, "Jerk."

The atmosphere is surprisingly light and though he does not really understand the dialog the Winchester brothers participate in, he can feel their affection and it is warm and good. He is reminded, again, of the beauty of love. And though Sam is very intelligent, Castiel thinks he underestimates Dean.

Dean has a beautiful, beautiful soul – and it is surely able to recognize its own kind.

**II.**

"So… poetry," Dean says warmly, his voice husky from the alcohol. He puts an arm around Cas and takes another sip of his bottle. "You like poetry."

Castiel stares at the hand tapping out a beat on his bicep but decides delicately not to remove it. Dean is humming _'there'll be peace when you are done'_ in time with his tapping, and Castiel knows that this is by the group that is also a state. It is not Nebraska, and since he does not want to displease Dean he does not ask for the name of the group or the song. Instead he says, "Yes, Dean. I like poetry."

Dean is only a little drunk, and Sam has disappeared – maybe back to the motel room or maybe somewhere else, and Dean does not want to talk about it. "They made us read poetry in school," he says, in a voice that does not quite manage to hide its contempt. He pulls Castiel a little closer and sniffs his hair. "Dude, you smell like flowers."

Castiel does not answer, though he is tempted to move away when Dean's arm slides to his waist. It seems to be an appropriate moment to remind Dean of the correct "personal space" procedures, but the alcohol is no doubt impairing his senses. Castiel decides it is not unpleasant to be pressed against his body; it is very human, very odd – but it is not unpleasant.

After a long, silent moment Dean leans back against the hood of the Impala and cautiously Castiel follows him. "So what's your favorite poem?"

"I do not have a favorite," he says. "But there is one I have been… _fond_ of lately."

"Yeah?" Dean releases him and turns a little to face him. The now-empty bottle hands loosely at his side in his other hand. His voice is suddenly impatient. "Well what is it?"

For a moment he is quiet, setting the scene for his recitation. It is not important to him that Dean feel the same way he does, but he feels a small sense of pride that he can share something he enjoys. "This is just to say," he begins deliberately. "I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold."

Dean's face strikes a chord in his chest as it stares at him in a scrunched, adorable expression of confusion. "Huh?"

"Do you need me to repeat it?" Cas asks. Perhaps he hadn't spoken loudly enough.

But Dean shakes his head. "No. But what the hell was that?"

"_This is Just to Say_," Castiel repeats. "By William Carlos Williams."

"Wait." Dean snorts. "That was a _poem_?"

Castiel's lips purse. "Yes."

Dean's laughter pours out of him in a thick, bubbling stream and he can't seem to contain it, doubling over as he hoots with glee. "That's a poem? That? That's a fucking_sentence_, Cas; it's the worst poem I've ever heard."

He laughs for a few seconds longer, distracted only by the sound of feathers indignantly ruffling. "Cas?" He looks up, a grin plastered on his face. He is suddenly alone in the dark, with only the cold company of the little pinpricks of light in the sky. "Cas?"

But his angel is nowhere to be seen. Dean suspects he has offended him; but that thought is funny, as well, and he whispers a half-hearted "sorry" as he chuckles up at the sky.

**III.**

Dean's breath catches in his throat as he stares out into the vast, roaring sheet of water. "Cas, wh-what is this?"

"I wanted to share it with you," Castiel explains quietly, his voice deep and smooth. "In case you lose the chance to see it later."

That is not particularly optimistic, and Dean is hit with a deep twinge as he thinks of the possibility that there might not be a world to see, much less a body to see it with. But Castiel's presence is calming for reasons that he doesn't understand, and he swallows down the words he wants to say and looks out from the ledge where they stand.

The view is breathtaking. It is more than breathtaking – it is wondrous and moving, and if Dean was willing to admit there was a God, he would be tempted to say "Good job" on the creation of the landscape. The water falls hard down a steep ledge, misting in a cloud at the bottom as a perpetual rainbow dances in an arc across it. The falls are separated into chunks, like thick ribbons of water strapped across the rockface.

"I guess you do know beauty," Dean breathes, his eyes alight.

Castiel smiles. It is small, but it is sincere.

The plants seem even greener, like they're feeding constantly in the water-soaked air. It is hot, but not unpleasantly so, and Dean isn't paying attention to the temperature, anyway.

"To some, this is the most beautiful place in the world," Castiel tells him, taking a step closer. They are standing on the edge, and it is taking all Dean's extra energy to keep that thought out of his head. Castiel seems to sense this and he stays close and solid. He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder in a gesture of companionship that is almost as beautiful as the scenery. Dean listens to the dull, echoing roar as pound upon pound of water barrels down. It is not rhythmic and it does not pulse, but it is continuous and it reminds him of something like the world's heartbeat. Or maybe blood, he thinks absently, aware that he is not making much sense. But there is a sense of life there that he cannot ignore, and when faced with a tomorrow so close to death it is a refreshing, so real, it makes something inside him shatter and he lets out a long, slow breath into the air.

"I guess I can see that," Dean says, his voice thick. "It's…" Words fall short, and maybe it wouldn't be so moving if there wasn't an angel beside him. "Pretty," he concludes, his eyes flickering over to Castiel. He swallows down something thick. "It's pretty."

Castiel closes his eyes and tilts his face up into the breeze. It moves over him smoothly as water, and Dean's head swims so badly he can hardly think as he watches the wind move like fingers through the dark hair. Maybe angel-men, angels in human bodies, perceive things differently, and Dean wonders if Castiel really can hear the world's heartbeat. "The world is always changing," Cas says, and he looks at Dean long and intensely, his eyes focused and dark and filled with what Dean can only call awe. Even though he knows that he did not cause the expression, it fills him with a gnawing sense of guilt that it is turned on him now. "I think this is the most beautiful I have ever seen Victoria Falls. I am glad I chose this day to share it with you."

And Dean laughs because Cas didn't choose it at all; they're just in the eye of the hurricane, in a reprieve before everything comes crashing down. Maybe they will make sense of things, dust off the ashes and pick things out of the rubble to rebuild – but maybe they won't and this is the last chance they have. "Then I guess it really is the most beautiful place in the world." And he grabs Castiel's hand quickly and squeezes hard; he doesn't know why he does this, doesn't think about it, but right before he lets go, Cas squeezes back and he lets out a shaky breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

**IV.**

Dean's breath catches in his throat and he grabs onto the angel's half-crooked tie. "Cas, are you sure?"

"I wanted to share it with you," Castiel explains quietly, his voice deep and smooth. "Your last day." They both know he never planned this, that whatever might happen now is completely beyond either's expectations, but there is something about knowing it may be one's last night on earth (or alive) that makes him do crazy, crazy things.

The situation is not particularly romantic, in a greasy motel room halfway between no and where, but Dean is hit with the same feeling that took him over earlier – and maybe everything is all right, because he's with Castiel and that's okay, because for that moment that's all he needs.

The room is in terrible shape. The wallpaper is peeling in long, ragged strips from old, water-stained walls, and thin, tattered drapes hang over the cracked window like a dark, steady falls. The air is warm, and stuffy, and Dean feels claustrophobic all of a sudden, like he is trapped inside his body. He wants to be free, so he takes off his clothes.

He thinks Castiel should be free; so he takes off his clothes, too.

Dean wonders how much of Castiel is in the physical form he wears, wonders if maybe even once he leaves a part of him will always be there, like a stain. He does not understand his attraction, because he has loved men platonically before, but there has never been someone like Cas, someone so hard and so male, someone so lovely that Dean wants to cry. Dean realizes that maybe he's on edge, and maybe he is being melodramatic – but then he thinks fuck it, he doesn't really care, and he only spares a thought for guilt as his lips move over Cas' forehead and the angel who is slowly becoming a man tells him that everything is all right and that if Dean wants to kiss him he can.

Dean does want to kiss him. So he kisses him, and shoves him down on the bed, and he tells him that he's beautiful, that the falls were beautiful, that he was sorry they weren't still there in the most beautiful place in the world, for something so new, desperate, raw.

Or that is what Castiel hears, as Dean says his name over and over again like a strangled, half-realized prayer. Castiel wonders if what he feels is desire; because he is giving this experience as a gift to Dean, but there is something inside him that wants this for itself, too. He breathes slowly, air in borrowed lungs like butterfly wings, as his hands skim sweat-soaked skin and he thanks Dean in hot, heavy kisses. He watches Deans lips part in a soundless moan and he thinks about the most beautiful thing in the world – most beautiful _place_; and Dean's thumb moves in clumsy circles on his cheek, until it brushes down against his mouth – and Dean says "Beautiful" and Castiel thinks _'Yes. With you.'_

**V.**

"So that is what sex is like?"

Dean looks at him, slightly scandalized. "Dude, you can't… You don't say that. You just don't."

Castiel wants to tell him that asking questions is how one learns, but Dean has not ever been particularly receptive to logic that does not fit in with his own. "Hmm."

Dean rolls his eyes. He is still naked, splayed out across the rumpled sheets. Castiel is relatively unmoved by the display, though he has worryingly come to believe that perhaps Dean's exterior is nearly as beautiful as what it houses. "Yes, dumbass." He rubs a big, clumsy hand in a heavy arc across Cas' shoulders. "That was nice." He looks at Cas, who is staring at him from where he sits cross-legged on the foot of the bed. "That was nice, right?"

"This body is not technically mine," Castiel reminds him, and the sick feeling Dean had happily managed to suppress comes back full force. "But I am glad that I know now what it is like to be physically loved." Dean wants to ask if the body's actual owner felt the same way, but he can't bring himself to do it. He isn't sure he wants to know the answer. Maybe it was selfish to initiate it. He wants to believe it wasn't, but he isn't entirely sure Cas would have stopped him even if it was. And Castiel isn't as much of a dick as the other angels, so there had to be something right. Something. "Do not worry," Cas says, and there is a note of something weary but satiated in his voice. He leans over and kisses Dean's calf, one hand coming up to run gentle fingers down his thigh.

Dean likes this maybe a little more than he should, and to quell his own impulses he sits up, too, pulling the thin, scratchy mustard-colored comforter over his lap. He clears his throat, because he knows this is something he has to say. "I, uh… I read some poetry." Cas seems interested, though he does not speak, and Dean is glad, because he wants to hurry and get this over with before he feels more like a girl than he already does. "And I think I can understand. I mean, why you like it. Even that stupid poem about the plums." He leans forward and cups Cas' cheek gently in his palm. "Because, I mean, that is beautiful – something delicious. Sweet. Cold." Castiel's eyes close and Dean can almost see him shiver. "I know what you mean now," he repeats. "Because, you, Cas… I can taste those plums." He moves closer and Cas' lips part as Dean's breath hits them. "And I would have taken them, too. No matter who they belonged to."

There is a battle to fight in a few scarce hours, but Dean is going to face that when it comes. He will fight, as he always fights. He wants now only to focus on Castiel, beautiful before him. Because that is the most beautiful place in the world; right now, the only place Dean wants to be.

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Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be greatly appreciated!


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